Devil's Consort (44 page)

‘Not everything, Eleanor.’ It shivered through me. His breath was warm on my neck. And there, following it, the brush of his fingertips. ‘Send me away if that is your wish. But do it now. Before it is too late.’

Oh, I knew it had all been contrived and he was an inverterate schemer. I also knew when I was beaten and raised my hand to press his against my shoulder so that his palm was warm against my exposed flesh.

‘Well?’ Now his lips were against my throat.

‘I don’t want you to go.’ Had it not been inevitable from the beginning?

‘Eleanor …’

Slowly he turned me round, and bending his head placed his lips on mine. His touch was light, his clasp on my shoulders insubstantial, as if allowing me the choice to step away.

I did not.

Geoffrey’s arms banded round me, his mouth hardened against mine and I sank into the embrace. Louis’s kisses had given me no warning of this. This was a long, dark slide of tongue and teeth, of ruthless possession, into a heat of blatant need in my belly and my loins. From there to my bed was no distance at all, where I discovered that I might lack the experience but I had the desire and a sense of what would please the Count of Anjou. Moving with effortless skill, making me feel neither awkward nor inept, he loved me.

Pinioning my wrists above my head, he looked down into my eyes.

‘Your monkish lover does not satisfy a woman of your temperament. But I can.’

I was swept along by his words. My skin heated, my breath caught and my emotions no longer obeyed me.

That night the Angevin conquered Aquitaine.

I had had no idea.

Three weeks. For those three weeks I was Countess of Poitou, not Queen of France. I was a young unwed
maiden again, not a married woman with a child. I was desired and indulged, flattered and beguiled with delicate pleasure. I was neither ignored nor rejected nor made to feel less than my worth. I was alive, under a breathtaking surge of excitement that I never wanted to end.

We rode, hunted, feasted, loved. I accompanied him when he rode to test the atmosphere in the neighbouring lands. I sat with him when he dispensed justice. I learned much of him as a man, as a ruler. His justice was fair, tempered with mercy, but he was no fool. Those who threatened the peace of Poitou were punished with a heavy hand.

Louis and Matilda remained as shades on the edges of our perception.

At night he was my lover. Or we lay together in my bed in late afternoon, a stolen moment when the rest of the household slept or whiled away the surprising heat of the late autumnal day.

‘I think you will go soon,’ he remarked. He stroked his hand down the length of my haunch.

‘Yes. Soon. But not today.’ I was sated and drowsy.

‘One thing …’

I lifted my head, intrigued to see him suddenly so serious. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m looking for a suitable wife for my son. It’s time he was betrothed.’

Ah! So matters of state had crept up on us. Had I expected it? Perhaps I had.

‘And have you someone in mind?’ I asked carefully. I would not pre-empt the discussion I foresaw.

‘You have a daughter.’

‘So I have.’

‘Would you consider a match between her and Henry?’

‘Marie is less than one year old.’

‘A betrothal for the future, nothing more.’ Geoffrey’s hand stroked down again, a slow, firm stroke, as his eyes held mine. ‘There are only thirteen years between them. There are eleven years between Matilda and myself.’ Suddenly he rolled and pinned me to the bed with his weight, his hands holding mine flat on either side of my head. ‘What do you think?’

I thought I did not like a marriage negotiation to come sneaking into my bed. Nevertheless I showed my teeth in a little smile. ‘So, my lord of Anjou, you have an ambition to be connected with the King of France?’

He did not return the smile. ‘I would not choose it—Louis is more my enemy than my friend. But this marriage would tip the balance in my direction. With Louis tied into alliance it will enhance my power. And Henry’s for the future.’ Suddenly, despite the intimacy of our position, his words revealed the ruthlessness that I had always suspected. ‘I’d make an alliance with the Devil if it brought me gain.’

I breathed slowly, remembering my own assertion, so long ago now, that I would wed the Devil if it would
keep Aquitaine safe. Geoffrey was staring at me as if he would will me to acquiesce. There was a cold ambition here, a calculation. Matilda, with her mind fixed on England, was not the only one to have an eye to the future. Suddenly the brightness of my chamber was dimmed as the sun moved beyond the window, and doubt, sharp-toothed, bit at my heart. Was this why Geoffrey had wooed me, courted me? Was it to make me compliant towards an alliance?

‘Eleanor? Do we make a pact?’

And I knew he had used me. I must step carefully in my dealings with Geoffrey of Anjou, circumventing any obvious traps. His will, his instinct for survival, was as strong as mine.

‘Eleanor?’ he repeated as he leaned and kissed me very gently on the lips.

‘You must ask Louis.’ I hedged a little.

‘But would you stand against me if I requested such an alliance?’

I forced my mind to consider, to weigh the advantages. I willed considerations of policy and power to take precedence over my own ruffled feelings.

‘No. I would not.’ I had no doubt that the Angevins would make their mark on the map of Europe. And if Henry had inherited any of his father’s charm and skill, he would definitely make my daughter a more fulfilling husband than Louis had ever made me. ‘No, I’ll not stand against you. I’ll give such an alliance my support.’

I saw victory in his gaze and was forced to turn my face away. I could not be sure that the pain that wrapped around my heart was not mirrored in my eyes and it would not do for him to see it. I must show no weakness with this man.

‘Eleanor—have I displeased you?’ His voice was tender again. With one hand he cupped my chin and made me look at him. ‘I think I have. Let me pleasure you again. And myself.’ I looked again at his fine features, the fierce admiration in his eyes. I shivered. ‘I want you, Eleanor, and for now my desire and your delight take precedence over my son’s future.’

I would never trust him completely. I would be a fool to do so … but for now …

‘Then show me.’

Did those around us know? Did they suspect? No, I think not. We were discreet. No word of scandal hung in the air. We both knew the value of discretion and we were not so foolish as to be alone together in public. My women were present, often Aelith, often Henry. I was simply the Countess of Poitou enjoying the hospitality of her home and the experience of her Seneschal. Rumour of a liaison between us would bring disaster down on our heads. An affair between those of high birth could be survived, but not for the Queen of France and the Count of Anjou.

It had to end. Aelith had already gone back to Raoul, with a wealth of gossip for his ears only. I must
continue south to Aquitaine, and then back to my other life as Queen of France in Paris; Geoffrey to Anjou, where trouble was brooding and likely to break out in rebellion.

We knew it must end, had always known, and we would not part in sorrow. No tears, no sighs, no longings. The troubadours would find no meat for their laments of unrequited love in my farewell to my Seneschal. Our final parting was quite public. Our words of farewell, perfectly proper, could be queried by no one around us. The Count kissed my hand briefly before helping me into my travelling litter and placing cushions for my comfort. He handed me a package of documents; charters and decrees appertaining to the government of Poitou.

‘God be with you, lady.’ He stepped back and bowed, the sun gilding his russet hair. ‘I’ll be in Paris by the end of the year, to discuss the matter of policy we spoke of.’

‘Excellent. It will be good policy, I think. I will advise the King of it.’

Then he gave the office to start and I closed the leather curtains of the litter, almost allowing the package to slip from my lap, except that my eye was caught. The package contained a jewel. Not a ruby—Geoffrey had far better taste than Louis—and the scrawl with it was as incriminating as his public manner towards me had not been.

I studied the words and considered what I had done. I did not love the Count of Anjou. I had wanted him and had welcomed him without conscience, but I had not loved him. I had enjoyed him, relished his attention, gloried in the dominance of his body over mine, yes, all of those. But he did not own my heart. I think we were two of a kind, both selfish, both self-seeking. Aelith had given up everything for love. I would not give up everything for the Angevin. I had enjoyed what he could give me and I would miss him, but his absence would not ruin my life.

Unexpectedly a sob rose in my throat. I closed my fingers over the emerald, a magical stone to preserve the wearer from sickness and ailments of the mind. Perhaps I did love him a little. My heart was not totally free from anguish. I tucked the jewel into a little travelling coffer, resisting the urge to wear it on a chain against my breast That would be foolishness. Nothing to be gained from dwelling on what could not be.

And in a sudden little vignette I recalled my parting from Geoffrey’s son, the expression on his face.

He had been solemn, making his farewells with his customary good manners. In the business of packing all my possessions I had left a case of documents in my room. Forestalling Agnes, he bounded off to recover
them, presenting them to me with grace, despite his laboured breathing, and a neat little bow so that I smiled my thanks to him. He did not smile back.

‘Adieu,
Henry,’ I said, holding out my hand.

He saluted my fingers. ‘God go with you, lady.’

What was it I saw there? An unsettling acknowledgement, perhaps. Speculation. Did he suspect my liaison with his father? I did not think it and yet … I felt he was appraising me, and I could not read his conclusion. His lips were thinly closed, unsmiling, his eyes cool and even judgmental. It spoke to me of strong emotion under careful restraint. Whatever his thoughts, he was concealing them from me Did he dislike me, perhaps?

I gave a little shrug. It was hardly a matter for my consideration. ‘I wish you well, Henry, if our paths never cross again,’ I said.

‘They will cross, lady.’

‘You are very sure. How can you tell?’

‘I know it. It is meant to be.’ His confidence startled me.

On a thought, I gave Henry a present of one of the white gerfalcons since he had admired them more than he had admired me. His solemn face split in a grin and he could barely thank me in his delight. How could I have thought him enigmatic? Henry was merely a boy with all the hopes and fears that youth suspended over our heads, like of bucket of cold water, to douse us when we least expect it.

T
HE
Cité palace waited for me, a grey, hunched beast to enclose me in its maw. The good weather had broken and the damp drizzle matched my mood. My chambers were clammy with the pervading odour of mildew, as if I had been gone for longer than a matter of weeks. What extreme piety had Louis embarked on in my absence? Had he taken residence in a hermit’s hut on the banks of the Seine? The King, I was informed, was at Notre Dame. I shivered as my life closed around me. Day after day after endless day in this dank warren of a palace stretched before me. My spirits were lower than at any time I remembered as my bones absorbed the chill. This was reality. This was my life.

Keeping my mantle close-wrapped, I gave my women orders to unpack and dispose of my possessions, whilst I sat on my bed and looked at the emerald, and not for the first time since I had left Poitou. The glow in its green depth gave me no comfort, and never could.

‘It’ll not bring him back.’ Agnes was as plain-speaking as ever.

‘No. And I would not want him.’

Handing the jewel to Agnes, I instructed her to place it in my jewel coffer. I would not look at it again. I must turn my mind to my life here in Paris.

Still gripping the mantle to my chin, I visited the royal nursery to see my daughter. She had grown, a healthy child who clutched at my braids as she pulled herself upright in her crib. Her hair was still fair like Louis’s, with none of the red-gold of mine, and her eyes had remained the clear blue inherited from her father. When I picked her up she whimpered a little. She would, of course. She had little knowledge of me.

‘I think I have found a bridegroom for you, Marie,’ I informed her.

She stared back as if she understood, the tears drying on her cheeks.

‘You will like him. He is called Henry and he has enough energy in him to set fire to the tapestries on your walls. Marriage to Henry will never be dull.’ She gnawed on my fingers with the suspicion of a tooth in her gums. ‘When you are older you will meet him. And when you are his bride you will leave home and all you know and love and go and live in Anjou. It is the lot of all women. But at least I can promise you that you will never be near-dead from boredom!’

When the child began to fuss, I gave her back into the arms of her nurse.

Returned to my chamber, I saw that all had been put to rights. Now what? I would not sigh. I would not brood. Instead I would mark my return. I spun round to search out my steward and order a feast, with music and song. And there was Louis, standing in the doorway, sweat gleaming on his neck as if he had arrived in a great rush.

‘Louis …’

I tried not to compare him with Geoffrey. Difficult not to. Impossible not to. Still playing the monk, Louis was thinner and less appealing than ever, his face marked with dark hollows beneath his eyes, almost gaunt, in fact. Hair still shorn, his jaw and cheekbones angular, I could see the tendons harshly prominent in his neck where it emerged from his hair shirt. I forced myself not to close my eyes but I looked away. The extreme emaciation and the total obsession of saintly Bernard was not far away.